


Who Only Asks

by jjtaylor



Category: due South
Genre: Emily Dickinson fandom, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjtaylor/pseuds/jjtaylor
Summary: Ray’s having a hard time pinpointing what it is that’s bothering him because he's having a hard time focusing. And he's having a hard time focusing because Fraser's doing that thing with his jaw.





	Who Only Asks

Someone's been breaking into libraries, which is not a location Ray expected to be investigating. He hadn't been to that many libraries, so maybe they were hotbeds of criminal activity that had passed under his radar. But after visiting three “crime scenes” aka small, stuffy rooms with broken windows and shattered glass cases and missing old books, Ray was ready to conclude that people just liked to steal things. 

Something's bugging Ray about the library thefts; not that they're happening at libraries, though he did get an earful of righteous stuff from Fraser about serving the under-served, and a whole other earful about concerns over whether or not the thief realized they might be subjecting the stolen books to conditions that would damage them permanently or lessen their value. Ray’s having a hard time pinpointing what it is that’s bothering him because he's having a hard time focusing. And he's having a hard time focusing because Fraser's doing that thing with his jaw. 

This isn't the way to get anything done on the case. His concentration's always right out the door once he looks at Fraser's jaw. Not just his jaw, his whole face; the subtle twists at the corners of his mouth, the way he brushes his thumb over his forehead when he's thinking. The tug of his eyebrow when he's making a decision. Ray's cataloged hundreds of minuscule movements of Fraser's deceptively expressive face. 

It's a normal thing, or Ray thought it was a normal thing to notice. Surely people noticed things about their partner's jaws all the time. Like the way Fraser's cheek kind of twitched when he clenched his jaw in a thoughtful way, like Fraser's jaw was the gateway to his thoughts and he had to move it in certain, subtle ways to get the thoughts out.

Maybe the attention Ray paid to Fraser's jaw, to Fraser's face, to Fraser was a little beyond normal. Which was fine. Or well, it would have been fine, except that one day, Ray kissed him, and Fraser kissed back, and 'partner' started to mean something a little bit more complex. The worst part, though, or the best - like he was saying, it was complex – was that now Ray knew what those little jaw movements felt like under his hands. 

“Let's get out of here, I can't think. It’s too stuffy,” Ray says. 

“Do you mean pompous, Ray, because I found Ms. Unquist to be quite pleasant, and reasonably concerned about the theft of the manuscripts.”

“Stuffy as in I can't breathe.”

“Ah,” Fraser says, “That would probably be the climate control. Most archives that contain old and rare documents keep them in climate-controlled rooms like this one to limit the exposure to humidity that can damage fragile - ”

“Fraser,” Ray interrupts. “Mind if you play museum guide outside? In the fresh air?”

“Of course, Ray.”

There's some connection he's missing with this case, Ray feels it in his gut, a pull to go this way when you were gonna go that way, a pull to hit the brakes just before a dog runs across the street.

“Speaking of dogs,” Ray says, though they weren't, “Where's Dief?” 

“He's at the Consulate. Tree mold is terrible for his allergies.”

“Sure,” Ray says. “Listen, something's bugging me about the case, you free tonight? You wanna get a pizza and help me think it through?”

“Of course, Ray,” Fraser agrees. Ray loves it when Fraser and his jaw are agreeable. 

 

The connection's right there, Ray can feel it, but it keeps dancing just out of reach. A half a pizza and two cups of coffee later and Ray can't pull together the pieces into anything other than a messy jumble.

Fraser is still talking about museums, or HVAC systems, or glass display cases, and Ray wonders how Fraser knows any of this. Was he a book geek as a kid? Did Mounties get a special archives education for preserving Canadian history? Did he just have too much time on his hands?

Fraser's hands are behind his head as he leans back on Ray's couch. He changed into a spare set of clothes he keeps here at Ray's apartment. Jeans and a red flannel shirt that they both agreed was a convenient way to keep pizza off Fraser's uniform and keep down dry cleaning costs and meant absolutely nothing other than convenience.

Still, Ray knew what it meant to keep clothes at someone else's house, and he didn't mind if it meant what it meant. He didn't mind if it was just convenience, but he didn't mind if it was something else.

Ray thinks about stolen books and watches Fraser's jaw. 

“Ray,” Fraser is saying. “Should I repeat my query?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, but when Fraser does repeat it, something about controversial metadata and archival rivals, Ray's looking at his jaw again and he doesn't hear enough to even process it as a question, just a random string of words.

“Ray,” Fraser says. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, but when he looks up and meets Fraser's gaze, he's caught out. He sees the recognition blossom across Fraser's face, the slight part of his mouth, the touch of his tongue to wet his lips. “I was distracted.”

“I can see that,” Fraser says, and now he's distracted, too. They're both distracted looking at one another's distraction. 

“I want to kiss you,” Ray says.

“I know,” Fraser says. 

“You know, huh?”

“Well, Ray, the way your breathing has changed, the dilation of your pupils, the way you clench your fingers on your knees is frequently, if not always a prelude to - ”

Ray kisses Fraser mid-sentence of Fraser describing Ray wanting to kiss him, cutting him off from saying more and making the potential a reality.

This was what Ray did. He leapt in. No, he pushed in. This was how this all got started, after all, Ray looking, and then Ray doing something more than looking. This was still so new that he hasn’t lost the flinch, the hesitation, waiting for the moment that Fraser will pull back with a mouth full of reasons they shouldn't do this, or reasons he doesn't want to do this. Reasons Ray is wrong.

So far, all Ray's been wrong about is Fraser telling him to stop.

Every time Ray kisses him, Fraser sighs into his mouth, an unspoken agreement. 

“Keep talking,” Ray says. He regrets it instantly. They're too new to be asking for things, way too new to be demanding them, but there's no recoil in Fraser, no tension. He signs again into Ray's mouth and begins to speak.

“It is difficult to continue talking while my mouth is occupied.”

“Your mouth is occupied, huh?”

Fraser's eyes darken just a little, his jaw muscles flex. It's like a coil, and Ray likes to see Fraser wind it up and let it go.

“Well, yes, Ray, with your mouth,” and fuck, Fraser says things like that and it's too much, too freaking much. Ray kisses him again, and presses his thumb to that spot on Fraser's jaw. Fans his fingers out along Fraser's perfectly barbered hairline.

“What would you like me to talk about?” Fraser says.

“Huh?” Ray asks. Fraser is worrying his lip between his teeth. Ray feels electric.

“You asked me to keep talking.”

Ray ducks his head. “I like it when you talk.”

“I believe I was saying earlier, about rare documents and the stolen memoirs of- ” 

“Not the case, Fraser,” Ray says. “Something else. Something.....”

“Something,” Fraser says, eyebrow quirked.

They look at each other. Ray can feel Fraser's jaw under his thumb. Coil, coil.

“Do you know the poet Emily Dickinson?”

“Not personally,” Ray says, because he's a smart guy. But Fraser is uncertain whether or not he's hit on what Ray's looking for, and this isn't a time for being funny. “Poetry,” Ray breathes out, nodding at Fraser. “Yeah, poetry's good.” He kisses Fraser again, and then kisses the corner of his mouth, so Fraser can keep talking.

“A 19th Century poet from Massachusetts, a recluse,” Fraser continues. “She wrote about nature, and the world around her, and wasn't only a poet but a prolific correspondent.”

Ray kisses Fraser's jaw and feels the muscles move under his lips, feels the hint of stubble.

“There's an interesting historical mystery, or one might say, controversy, about a series of letters often referred to as the Master Letters,” Fraser says.

“Sounds kinky.” Ray is thinking about throwing a leg up over Fraser's thighs and settling in his lap, but he decides there's something else he wants more. He moves to kneel on the floor.

“Possibly, though more likely the form of address is a gesture of respect or an indication of deference,” Fraser continues.

Ray unbuckles Fraser's pants. The belt, then the button. As he's about to pull open the zipper, Fraser takes in a long breath. Until now, he's been looking at the wall behind Ray. When their eyes meet again, it's all heat, and Ray sees how frayed Fraser's control already is. Just how much he'd been focusing to keep talking about a writer and some pretty dirty sounding letters.

“Would you like me to keep talking?” Fraser asks.

“Yes,” Ray says, between kissing Fraser's fingers. “Yes.”

Fraser takes in a deep breath as Ray undoes his zipper. 

“Many scholars have postured that the letters were, as you inferred, to a love interest, whether acknowledged or unrequited -”

Ray's not listening to the words, but the breaths in between. The places where Fraser slips. The little moments, Ray lives in those little moments. 

The catch of Fraser's voice as he talks about some pulley system from a window, as Ray takes Fraser's cock into his mouth. The smooth words as Ray sucks him that lengthen and swoop as he pulls back, smooth out again. It makes Ray hot and dizzy, to hear what he's doing to Fraser, to hear every little hitch of his breath.

“The writer refers to herself as Daisy, whether a fond nickname or meaning-laden image -” Fraser's breath catches on the 'g' – and then his voice abruptly cuts off.

Ray's about to pull off to ask if Fraser's run out of poetry factoids when Ray opens his eyes and looks up though his lashes.

Fraser's gripping his thighs, his head tilted back, no longer looking at the wall but up at the ceiling.

“Ray,” Fraser breathes out, a gasp, and then again. “Ray.”

Ray doesn't stop to ask questions. He's got the answer. He sucks Fraser hard, and Fraser's whole body goes taut under him. He calls Ray's name faster, an urgent story Fraser's telling him. 

When Fraser comes in Ray's mouth, it's with a wordless gasp. Fraser's body does the talking, and Ray understands it all.

It's the stuff dreams are made of, or fantasies at least, and Ray's had a lot of fantasies, a lot since meeting Fraser, but the tenor and pitch and all the background music has gone up to 11.

Ray's thinking about the delirious revelation of that first kiss, and he's thinking about the noises Fraser made when he was trying keep his voice steady, and he's thinking about the heavy weight of Fraser's cock in his mouth and the hard press of the floor into his knees. He could move now to at least kneel on the edge of the carpet, but his arms are heavy and the urgency to get his hand on his cock is too much. He shoves his jeans down as low around as hips as they'll go, strokes his cock and thinks about Fraser, Fraser, Fraser. 

Fraser's murmuring “Ray,” and it sends a spike through Ray, remembering the way Fraser had called out his name.

Ray's eyes snap open to Fraser leaning over from the couch, his face close to Ray's, saying his name even more sharply.

“Sorry, Frase,” Ray murmurs back, “I don't know what you expect me to do, you're too fucking sexy.” Ray squeezes his cock hard and then slips his hand back out of his pants.

Fraser is rubbing small circles with his thumbs over Ray's shoulders like he's smoothing out wrinkles.

“I don't expect anything, Ray, but I was hoping you'd let me do that.”

“Do what?” Ray says, thinking about how hard his cock is and how badly he needs to touch it again, and then his brain catches up. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Fraser says, evenly.

“That means yes, Fraser,” Ray says. “Yes.”

Fraser's face lifts, and then he's lifting Ray, too, gentle hands under Ray's arms. Fraser picks him up like he's – Ray doesn't know, like Fraser is a Mountie and Ray is something a Mountie picks up like nothing. It’s Ray being plucked off the floor, and deposited on Fraser, draped across Fraser, and Fraser is so goddamn strong. 

“Fraser,” Ray says, because his cock is trapped against the warmth of Fraser's stomach and Ray's trying not to wriggle but Jesus, it's all he can do not to hump Fraser right now and that's not really what he wants.

“Yes, Ray?” Fraser says, brushing tantalizingly down the back of Ray’s thighs.

“Can you – can you do the thing that you were hoping I'd let you do?”

“The thing I was hoping you would let me do,” Fraser says. “The thing you were doing.”

He's whispering it into Ray's ear, thumbs moved from his thighs to his spine. 

“Fraser, please,” Ray breathes out.

And he's waiting for some retort, some Canadian correction, but Fraser kisses his neck and slides his hand around Ray's cock and everything in Ray's head turns liquid and sloshes around. The only sound in his head is the static of waves, the waves of a radio going out of tune, the tune of his pulse pounding in his ears and the need, the need, the need.

It's not long before he comes, open mouth shouting against Fraser's shoulder, his sight going gray. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in hot, wet gasps. He lays heavily against Fraser, who doesn't so much as shift as Ray collapses his whole weight against him.

“Ray,” Fraser says.

“Gimme a second.”

“No, Ray, I'm not rushing you,” Fraser says. “I simply wanted to know, do you always forget to breathe when you climax?”

Ray huffs a breath against Fraser's skin. It's such a Fraser question, asked so plainly, like it's a thing everyday people ask one another. He leans his head back down on Fraser's collarbone, presses a kiss to Fraser's shoulder. He's suffused with warmth, his eyes half-open, the unfocused blur of Fraser's chest in front of him. “I don't know, I guess you'll have to find out.”

Fraser goes tense under him. A smart guy, that's what Ray is, always ruining the moment. 

“I guess I will,” Fraser says, quietly, hand brushing gently against the nape of Ray's neck, and it doesn't so much feel like ruin anymore, not just now.

“That's it,” Ray says, the pieces of the case slotting together in his head. He pushes himself up to sit. “That's who it is, the librarian.”

“To whom are you referring, Ray? The Master in Dickinson's letters?”

“No, Fraser, what do I look like, a freaking scholar? The thief. The rare book thief. You said it before. Archival rivals. It's the librarian, the suspicious-looking one.”

“On the whole, I don't view librarians through a lens of suspicion.”

“The guy at the second crime scene. He stole the book from the first crime scene and then the first crime scene's librarian stole a book from him in retaliation - ”

“And then, to throw off suspicion, the first librarian broke into a collection of the third library - ”

"You've got it!” Ray says. 

“Indeed,” Fraser says, though there's not so much triumph as amusement on his face. “This is the first case we've solved without pants,” Fraser says. “Unless of course you consider Robert Blythe in the jerky smuggling ring of - ” 

“Fraser,” Ray says, pushing himself up. “I gotta shower before we go make an arrest.”

“Right, Ray, of course. I should - ”

“You should, too.” And there goes Fraser's jaw again, and the eyebrows. Ray is going to crash his car looking at those eyebrows someday.

“Shower.”

“With me, Fraser. You can tell me everything you know about Canadian historical archives.”

Ray puts his own eyebrows to work, and then turns his back and starts toward the shower, because he knows, he knows now, that Fraser will follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to romantical and minervacat, who read this maybe four months ago, or longer. May old fandoms have no expiration date.


End file.
